NationStates Jolt Archive

Finastadt, City-State
Formerly New Empire

The beer went down hard and spicy, just like 89’ Rotgut was suppose to, or at least so thought Arthur Price. He was an unassuming man in his late forties. His unkempt and matted medium black hair seemed to fade in quite nicely with his faded and stained deep blue naval uniform. He’d worn it everyday since the civil war started and everyday he’d failed to keep it up to standards. Why? The United City-States was no more and even now there were rumors of another nuclear exchange between cities on the west coast. It had all been like this for a few years now, and nothing seemed to be changing. The only reason he was able to sit here and enjoy his 89’ Rotgut was because of his destined to be short ship-leave on the mainland while the Finastadt Fleet re-supplied itself and prepared for another foray against mercantile vessels. The City-State of Finastadt, officially proclaimed an empire by his ever so adored ‘emperor’, Enoch Clay, required every menial scrap of supplies they could, even if they included dissolving all forms of honor and humanity. They had to ever since the farms on the outskirts of town went into open revolt. Emperor Clay hadn’t made any deceive move to reclaim the outlands, for what use did the city have for the irradiated farmlands. Let the mutated farmers have their little douse of ‘freedom’, sooner or later some roaming warlord would claim them as his own. The cycle never ceased, it merely slowed from time-to-time. So in essence he and everyone else serving their beloved ‘emperor’ in the Finastadt Navy were pirates; paid, steady income pirates, but pirates nonetheless.

‘Another 89’ over here,’ he shouted in the middle of the smoke-chocked bar. A few minutes later a rather severely underdressed, bordering on obscene if such a thing existed to sailors, waitress walked over and set down the pitcher of beer before walking off and displaying everything she had to offer to Arthur. The rugged sailor merely glared at her before taking a big gulp of his rotgut beer and looking around the tavern. A few more hours passed uneventfully as Arthur continued to pour the sorrows of his career out of his mind. Just as Arthur was finishing his third pitcher of 89’ rotgut the door to the tavern swung open and two rather unsophisticated fellows swaggered in. One was Petty Officer First Class Brett Joyner, his rather large frame and seemingly immense bulk usually kept him safe in bars like these. The other was Senior Chief Petty Officer Reid Kinney, also rather large in size but when compared to Brett he was found more than lacking. They both caught site of Arthur, Reid said something to Brett, and the larger man walked towards the bar, Reid however came right up to Arthur without the slightest care.

‘How’s it going sir,’ he said while taking a seat at the table. Arthur took another gulp of his beer and grinned.

‘Just barley Reid.’

The fellow sailor let out a slight chuckle and looked around the bar, ‘Aint been in here a lot, especially since the alcohol tax took a sharp increase. All courtesy of our beloved ‘emperor’'

Arthur smirked and nodded, ‘His wisdom will guide us threw these troubled times.’ He had an exaggerated waving of his hands and his voice took on a tone similar to a prophet. A few citizens sitting around the table next to him gave nods of agreement, some raised their glasses. Arthur couldn’t tell weather they thought he was being serious or joking. He knew Enoch’s popularity was always low, but he did have his staunch followers ready to die in his name – just like any tyrant.

‘I’m surprised you found the money,’ commented Reid glaring at Arthur harshly.

‘What can I say old friend,’ replied Arthur in-between sips, ‘Its paradise to be a captain!’

Reid glared at him for a few more seconds before both men burst into laughter, about that time Brett walked over with two pitchers of Blood Ruby, a little bit of a softer beer than 89’ Rotgut. Arthur eyed the red liquid with more than a little sarcasm.

‘Brett you never told me you had an experimental procedure to remove your balls,’ chimed Arthur pointing at the beer. Brett’s face turned red and he opened his mouth to let out a roar of disproval when Reid burst into laughter, causing the bulky giant to gradually do the same.

As the laughter died down Arthur finished the last of his rotgut and exhaled. He looked up at Reid, ‘Anything new going on? When are we shipping out again?’

Reid looked at Arthur with a puzzled look. ‘You going to tell me or are you going to sit there like a little bitch?’

The Senior Chief Petty Officer glanced at Brett and then fixed his gaze on Arthur, ‘You weren’t informed?’

‘Informed about what,’ scolded Arthur as his mood quickly turned sour despite the pitchers of stout coursing threw him, burning in his gut.

‘The ‘emperor’ has dry-locked the entire fleet,’ whispered Reid. He looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be standing there ready to execute him for high treason.

‘What the fuck? Why?’ stammered Arthur. He never particularly enjoyed the Navy, but it paid damn good – and even better for a captain like himself. If they were dry-locked that meant that sailors wouldn’t get paid, another lovely and surely divinely inspired creed by Emperor Clay, another way to curb all losses.

‘There are rumors of treason within the Navy,’ said Reid even more quieter, almost beyond Arthur’s ability to understand, ‘Some of us … I mean, the men, are pissed at the lack of pay for lower ranks.’

Arthur instantly knew that Reid meant, ‘What the hell do you intend to do to get Clay to change the law. He’ll just march a regiment down to the docks and take the ships back by force.’

Reid shook his head slightly, once again giving Arthur the impression that he was expecting to be killed at any moment, ‘He won’t have the chance. We intend to leave docks … for good.’

Arthur sat silent for a moment; he was captain of the Resolve, a medium-sized battleship. It wasn’t the most advanced piece of machinery the world had ever seen but it did more than enough against petty escort cruisers or mercantile ships outfitted with improvised weapons. As he stared across the table at the lower ranked officers he couldn’t help but feel their visit was a little more than a coincident. Even though they were not stationed on his ship he’d known them for years, back when they all went to the Naval Academy, back in the days of the United City-States … back when they fought for a real cause. He looked down at his empty pitcher of rotgut.

‘Another pitcher!’ he called out and looked across the table of the now blatant petitioners. He would need to get hammered before making such a critical decision.

OOC: Tagged for Participation.

Finastadt, City-State
Formerly New Empire

Security Watchman Avery Waters flicked his completely burned out cigarette across the concrete paving, the smelling of the smokes partially burned filter leaving a bad after-smell. It didn’t ruin the experience for Avery who glanced around him as the full moon and clear skies illuminated the otherwise dull docks. The rusted shipping containers hadn’t moved in years, not since the downfall of the United City-States, the day that brought the multi-billion populated nation to its knees and left it divided. Small ships continued to slowly batter the docks they were strapped to, they too hadn’t moved in years. Most were old merchant vessels, some were mid-sized fishing ships used for decades but now left to rust in the docks, their captains unable to sell them or use them. In fact, the only reason Avery’s job was even necessary, especially since the authorities really didn’t care what happened to dying machinery, was because what few containers and ships were used were critical to the states continued existence. They carried the limited trade that Finastadt engaged in and the containers left on-shore were vital to the coastal economy. Avery wasn’t the only guard obvious, he just guarded one section. He gave one last look around and once he was content that there were no drunken teenagers or thieves roaming around he made his way back threw the dark, dense, and rusted jungle of abandoned containers. When he first started he dreaded taking his rounds, especially since his section had already claimed four guards before he came – all very much younger than his fifty-one year old body. He always maintained that it was his common sense that allowed him to retake this section … that, and the shotgun he carried, supported by a myriad of side arms and a knife. It took him nearly twenty-minutes to get back to the small, metallic, square-shaped white-washed building that passed as a security post. Its three small square windows give him a hundred and eighty degree view, exposing everything to his watch except the docks themselves. He found that rather inefficient, but back in the glory days the government was more worried about what was getting into the docks rather than trying to keep everything out. Along with lights mounted all over the place, there was a small green-tinted light that jutted out from the building, dangling from a silver bar over the window facing towards the city-proper. Avery ignored the light, as he always did, and opened the door into the facility. A wash of cool air hit him as the three fans he used to cool the station pushed back the warmth of an average Finastadt night.

Avery immediately set his shotgun down on one of the tables; he always kept it within arms reach, you never knew when some nutcase was going to try something. He looked over the thirteen cameras were kept a constant vigil for intruders, placed many, many years before he arrived they were useful, but only so-much. Camera five was pretty much useless, it’d been partially destroyed somehow, and now only showed half of its recording. Cameras two, six, and twelve all had too much fuzz. Avery had to keep special attention on these areas since the cameras wouldn’t show him everything, and they were simply too dangerous to patrol during the night. The thing about his section was that he had official control, and probably could have survived a trip into these disturbed areas, but if he could avoid it, he would. He took his usual three minute long careful stare at all these less than perfect views before he was content that nothing overtly unusual was moving among the static. He took a seat in the yellow-colored chair that only allows minimum reclining; it too had been here since the glory days. Avery didn’t let its uncomfortable frame bother him too much and he gazed wearily out the window of his station. He’d been working damn near eighty-hours a week just to keep the bills paid and the family fed. His children had all tried several times to make it on their own, but the economic situation Finastadt found itself in required that families unite, live in one home, and work to bring in a collective income. As such Avery only brought home enough to cover a couple of the bills, and his children did their best to catch the rest; on more than one occasion had the lights gone out for months on end. That always bearing in his mind, Avery did his best at his job everyday – but this one night his eyes began to slip and he soon found himself in a half-sleep, fighting to stay awake but simply too tired to do more than fight a stalemate. As his eyes began to falter, he saw it.

A face, as if it’d been there, staring at him, for hours it seemed – suddenly moved quickly and vanished, leaving on the sound of something hitting the glass window and footsteps pounding. Avery jumped too his feet and reached for his shotgun he was relieved to feel its wood stock and cool metal barrel in his hands. He quickly jolted out of the door and in front of the building. He aimed his shotgun from the hip and aimed in every direction.

‘You damned teenagers! Stay away!’ he shouted into the darkness to no one.

He never saw him – the sailor who’d managed to find his way around Avery’s blind side and behind him. As the elderly watchman turned around, he only had a split second to put pressure on the trigger of the shotgun before he felt cold steel wrap around him as his throat was slit. In a single motion, the shotgun was ripped from his hand and he fell, searching for his side arms. He couldn’t find them, but he found his knife and tried to raise it in defiance but it was short lived as his elder heart gave-up on him.

Arthur Price came from the shadows with sailors rushing forwards around him, securing the station and beginning to relay their status to other elements of the rebellion. As Arthur approached the corpse of Avery Waters he shook his head as the man who’d slit his throat, a Shaun Cline, just a simple ensign stood grinning, cleaning off his knife.

‘You’re one sick motherfucker Shaun,’ said Arthur, ‘I ever tell you that?’